Farewell My Lovely by Raymond Chandler with Owen Hill, part 1

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Farewell, My Lovely (1940) by Raymond Chandler is a cornerstone of the noir genre and the Philip Marlowe books, showcasing Marlowe in one of his most memorable cases. The novel’s richly atmospheric prose vividly captures the seedy underbelly of Los Angeles, immersing readers in its gritty, dangerous world. Chandler’s exploration of moral ambiguity and flawed characters adds depth to the mystery, elevating it beyond a simple whodunit.

With its sharp dialogue, intricate plotting, and evocative style, the book solidified Chandler’s reputation as a master of noir and influenced generations of crime writers.

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Owen Hill joins Tea, Tonic & Toxin to discuss Farewell, My Lovely by Raymond Chandler.

Owen is a novelist and a poet, and The Giveaway: The Clay Blackburn Story, an omnibus of his crime fiction, was recently published by PM Press. It includes three novels and a short story. Owen coedited The Annotated Big Sleep (Vintage, 2018) with Pamela Jackson and Anthony Dean Rizzuto.

Let’s Talk About the Philip Marlowe Books

Insubordination: Marlowe is 33 and went to college once. He’s a bit of a cynic, and his manners are bad. He was fired for insubordination. “I test very high on insubordination.” (The Big Sleep)

American hero: “Chandler seems to have created the culminating American hero: wised up, hopeful, thoughtful, adventurous, sentimental, cynical and rebellious” (NYT Book Review).

A detective always has a code: “Marlowe is Prometheus [of American myth]: the noble outsider, sacrificing and enduring for a code he alone upholds.” [The Annotated Big Sleep, Raymond Chandler (eds. Owen Hill, Pamela Jackson, and Anthony Rizzuto)]

Tough guy: He’s tough, clever, and a good judge of character. He’s brash and witty.

At his tiny apartment, he goes to a chessboard on a card table. “There was a problem laid out on the board, a six-mover. I couldn’t solve it, like a lot of my problems” (The Big Sleep ch. 24). 

In the Philip Marlowe books, Marlowe doesn’t have a backstory, a love interest, or family drama.

“Look,” I said. “This room is eighteen floors above ground. And this little bug climbs all the way up here just to make a friend. Me. My luck piece.” I folded the bug carefully into the soft part of the handkerchief and tucked the handkerchief into my pocket. Randall was pie-eyed. His mouth moved, but nothing came out of it.

“I wonder whose lucky piece Marriott was,” I said.

“Not yours, pal.” [Randall’s] voice was acid—cold acid.

“Perhaps not yours either.” My voice was just a voice. I went out of the room and shut the door.

I rode the express elevator down to the Spring Street entrance and walked out on the front porch of City Hall and down some steps and over to the flower beds. I put the pink bug down carefully behind a bush.

I wondered, in the taxi goin

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